Parade Crashers

Walking in Central Park

As the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade drifted across the TV this year, I found myself thinking less about the floats and more about a moment years ago when I accidentally lived out one of my deepest fears: being embarrassingly on display with absolutely no control of the situation.

We were in New York so my youngest daughter could tour East Coast colleges, and after wrapping up our visit at Fordham, I thought it’d be nice—quick and simple—to drive the family through Manhattan so the girls could at least see Central Park. We weren’t sightseeing; we were killing time before our flight. A harmless detour.

At least, that’s what I thought.

We turned onto Fifth Avenue and instantly noticed something was off. No traffic. No taxis. No chaos. For Manhattan, it felt like a movie set before the extras arrive. But we kept driving, pointing out the park and pretending I knew where I was going.

Then came the police officers. Dozens of them. Waving.

Then the families—lined up in perfect rows on parade chairs. Kids cheering. People pointing. Clapping.

Behind us: a long line of police vehicles. In front of us: absolutely no one. Beside us: crowds acting like we were the stars of the show.

My entire family started waving because everyone else was waving. And I waved too—mostly out of panic—because in that moment, I became convinced we were doing something illegal and the police behind us were closing in.

It took a few blocks and a flood of Puerto Rican flags before it clicked: We were accidentally leading the National Puerto Rican Day Parade. A very Polish, very Nordic, very Chicago family in a minivan… unintentionally serving as the Grand Marshals of a parade we didn’t know was happening.

And because New York knows how to commit, we couldn’t escape. Fifth Avenue was fully blocked. No turns. No exits. Just me and the Fam, sweating through my shirt, trying to drive naturally while hundreds of people cheered for our cluelessness.

Eventually, someone realized we were not part of the festivities—probably the confused faces and the minivan—and flagged us off to a side street. And just like that, the real parade rolled on.

If I’m honest, I’ve spent my entire life trying to avoid embarrassment. I double-check everything. I over-prepare. I worry way too much about looking foolish. It’s the part of me I’ve always tried to keep hidden—this fear of being caught in the open, unready, exposed.

But that day in New York taught me something I didn’t realize until years later:

Embarrassing moments aren’t the exceptions—they’re the rule.

Life keeps putting me in situations I didn’t plan for. Moments where the only thing I can do is keep moving, keep waving, and accept that I'm being seen exactly as I am.

And the truth is: it’s not fatal. It’s not even bad. It’s human.

I learned that surviving an embarrassing moment doesn’t make me weaker—it makes you looser. Softer. More willing to laugh next time instead of hide.

Because if you can lead a parade by accident and live to tell the story, what’s left to be afraid of?